


Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (AU)

by FanfictionReader2015AD



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanfictionReader2015AD/pseuds/FanfictionReader2015AD
Comments: 2





	1. Chapter 32 (AU)

Neither of them had expected to end up in a graveyard, especially when they were expecting the simple thrill of victory. After the stress and trials of the Triwizard Tournament, both Harry and Cedric desperately wanted the day to be over. When they flew through the air, neither could come up with rational thought or any reason why they might be being transported to another place. Harry’s first instinct was that the cup was a Portkey, some kind of trap, and he immediately wanted to tell someone. There was no chance to do that. The only other person who knew about it was Cedric, and he was coming to the secret location with him. If they died together, the secret would die with them, never come to light, and it would seem like they’d simply vanished into thin air. Maybe the organizers of the tournament would accuse them of cheating. Perhaps it would appear that they had somehow broken the strict charms around the maze, cut their way through the hedge on the way to the center as a shortcut, and there would ultimately be no winner. If only they hadn’t been the first to reach the trophy! Exhilaration and relief had turned into gut-wrenching fear.

They both stumbled, fell to their knees. Harry was up before Cedric, already suspecting some plot of Voldemort’s. The sphinx, the spider, all had seemed like fairly tame obstacles in comparison to this; at least those were clearly the machinations of their teachers rather than a greater evil. They were in a graveyard, and it was dark, overcast, and gloomy. Mossy headstones rose out of the ground all around them in ordered lines like ancient teeth, none of them with names Harry recognized. Could this be yet another part of the tournament? But how, and why, when they had already seized the trophy?

They were near a small church, but there were no lights visible through its old, stained glass windows. It was deserted. Cedric, meanwhile, was still working through exactly what had happened. “Did anyone tell you the cup was a Portkey?” he asked.

“Nope,” Harry said, frowning. He didn’t like this at all. The ancient yew tree covering them both in spidery shadow creaked, ominously, and the shadows shifted despite the still air. They both took their wands out, hoping that would somehow protect them. Harry wanted Cedric to make the suggestion because he himself was certain that this was part of a greater, more sinister plan.

A figure approached. For a split second, it seemed as if they would go unnoticed, half-concealed in the low-hanging branches of the tree as the robed figure stood still. It was silhouetted by the dirty marble of a headstone, features indiscernible, almost looking like a Dementor. There was silence, broken only by Cedric’s quiet, shallow breathing; then the figure turned to look at them, raising the strange bundle it held by a fraction like a discipline prostrating before a deity. A high, cold voice commanded them.

To them, Cedric was worthless. Wormtail had bothered to tie Harry against an old grave with tight and messy knots, while they left Cedric rendered magically unconscious twenty feet away. The Triwizard Cup was discarded by him, a few meters from his outstretched arm; but he was face down in grave dirt and motionless until they decided to revive him. The rest of the world seemed to fade away in front of Harry, the pain in his scar blinding and all-consuming to the extent that his whole body shook. He watched the ritual in front of him, the acrid stench of something evil and malevolent filling the air with the emanating reek from its ancient iron bowl. Bone...then flesh… the twisted mask of a face was barely illuminated by the flickering sparks of the cauldron, appearing for barely the time it took Harry to blink, constantly dissipating and reforming with each convulsion of the bright blue liquid. The creature was going to rise Voldemort was going to rise, and Harry could do nothing about it. His wand lay by Cedric, and Cedric was unconscious, good as dead. Yes, they were both going to die: Harry would be sacrificed here, in this very ritual, a cog in the machine for Voldemort’s return. They might leave the other boy, champion of the school, as food for the worms. After a week, his body would give up on him even as he slept, starving and dehydrated and exposed to the cold harsh elements of wherever this place was. Then the worms and maggots would come and begin to eat away at his cold, purpling flesh, eroding joints already stiffened by rigor mortis that would never fully set in. He would sleep into death and into whatever wizarding afterlife, even as his grey eyes turned into moldering pulp.

Wormtail whimpered, far too close, stinking of fear and sweat. His greasy thin hair swung over his rat-like face as he scrabbled at Harry’s arm. The silver dagger pierced Harry’s arm before he could register it, too dazed by a catatonic sense of doom. The cauldron turned velvety black. Steam and vapor filled the air, blinding Harry.

But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

“Robe me,” said the high, cold voice from behind the steam, and Wormtail, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feet, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master’s head.

The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry, and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake’s with slits for nostrils

“Lord Voldemort had risen again.“

The mock duel was over. Harry huffed, heart, pounding in his ears, stumbling over Cedric’s bloody corpse. He seized one of the other boy’s cold hands, gritting his teeth as his hand met skinned flesh, raw and seeping with half-warm blood. He forced himself to keep hold of the flayed skin, the edges curled, hardening in the cold, brushing up against his sweaty palm. His mind kept trying to drag him back to the traumatic messages of minutes earlier. When the Death Eaters had tortured Cedric. When they’d killed him for fun, to prove their loyalty to the Dark Lord; no, his mind was protecting him, somehow, valiantly, blocking the memories. Back in the moment. Voldemort was coming, almost chasing him. The body he had to get it back. They wouldn’t know what happened otherwise; and yet, still, his parents would never be able to recognize the tortured and disfigured corpse as their handsome son who’d entered the graveyard hand in hand with Harry.

Bright lights flashed around Harry in a psychedelic whirl.

“Stand aside! I will kill him! He is mine!” shrieked Voldemort. The words echoed through Harry’s skull like a death sentence made real. The Dark Lord saw other people as pawns and property, and his enemies as nothing more than objects to torture and murder. It had been so easy for him to kill in the past. He had done it again, enabled the evil actions of his Death Eaters, and now Harry’s chance to escape was slipping away from him…

Harry’s hand clenched tighter around the wrist of Cedric’s corpse. If he pulled too hard, it might fall apart, the shell of the other boy having been abused to the point of near dismemberment. Bones cracked with a wet crunch as Harry heaved the corpse over the headstone standing in between him and his only escape. The cup glinted on the ground. Gaudy, golden, and the sign of victory. Victory would be survival, at best, just his own pathetic survival. There could be no true satisfaction while he was still alive; not when he’d seen before his very eyes just how many people would be killed in his name. At this point, Harry almost wanted to be struck down there and then. It would end with the prophecy. Then he thought of Dumbledore, of his friends and his mother who would all sacrifice everything for him. No, he had to keep going.

One tombstone stood between him and Voldemort, but Cedric was too heavy to carry, and the cup was out of reach. Voldemort’s red eyes flamed in the darkness. Harry saw his mouth curl into a smile, saw him raise his wand.

He had a sudden, wild idea, improbable but the only way he could reach the cup. Usually, they were charmed, but now that it was apparent the entire tournament had been a ruse concocted solely to trap him, the rules had changed. He had to get back and tell Dumbledore. There was a spy, a traitor; all he needed was the cup and then he and Cedric, or what was left of him, would be back at Hogwarts.

“Accio!” Harry yelled, pointing his wand at the Triwizard Cup.

His heart thumped with relief as it flew into the air and soared toward him. Harry caught it by the handle, the exhausted muscles of his arm screaming in pain, his blood-stained fingers barely clinging onto the brassy handle. He heard Voldemort’s scream of fury at the same moment that he felt the jerk behind his navel that meant the Portkey had worked. It was speeding him away in a whirl of wind and color, and Cedric along with him.

Voldemort’s wicked smile remained on his face and he still held his wand aloft. It was a clear gesture of triumph, and the Dark Lord remained frozen in the moment simply to draw out its delicious satisfaction for longer. Around him, his followers were quiet, uncertain as to whether they’d achieved victory or not. Even though the world had started to wormhole around the figure of the boy, his killing curse had still shot true, and the brilliant green light had pierced through the foggy air with perfect aim. Of course, it had landed. The curse had been sucked into the rip created by the magic of the Portkey and would follow the boy all the way through to the other side with unerring precision. It was a victory, plain and simple, a victory so certain that it didn’t even need to be witnessed by his red and snake-like eyes.

The Portkey trip only took seconds, but for some reason, it felt like an eternity for Harry. The blurred lens of his surroundings rushing past, the typical hallmarks of teleportation travel, had faded and paled more than normal. Something was wrong. He felt oddly disconnected from his body. In moments such as this, it felt as if death was catching up to him as if he was crossing the boundary from the plane of the living to the land of ghosts. There were whispers, quiet, and disturbed. He heard his mother, then his father, then Cedric, all voices flitting past in a breathless rush of air as he hurtled back towards Hogwarts.

He didn’t know why, but he was remembering Cedric. His death. Then the warm, starry light of the Hogwarts field hit his face. All the way through the Portkey, the green light had been following him, getting closer and closer to touching his skin and actually committing the act. The Killing Curse buried itself in his back. Harry died instantly, painlessly, in front of the horrified spectators in the field. His slack hands dropped the wrist of Cedric’s corpse and the Triwizard cup.

The crowd had been waiting outside the entrance to the maze, waiting for either of the two champions to emerge. The cup had been charmed to trigger an alarm as soon as it was touched, signaling that the tournament had ended and it was safe to recover the remaining champions. There had been no sparks or distress signals from the maze; everyone, students, teachers, and other guests, knew that something was off. Fleur was bedraggled but generally fine; Krum had been recovered unconscious and would take a few days to wake up. Whatever was happening in the maze had been unknown right until the two dead champions materialized out of thin air, outside the maze, in what seemed to be a freakish and unexplainable series of events.

Dumbledore was the first to step forwards, taking charge. He knew immediately there had been foul play; he had trusted Harry, invested in him, even, and knew that Harry would die a hero rather than do anything underhand. The headmaster crouched over Harry’s prone body, gesturing with a flick of the hand for others to stay away.  
  
“Don’t look,” he commanded, referring mostly to the younger students. A gasp arose from the assembled crowd. A third-year boy fainted, and the students around him let him fall to the grass with a light thump. It seemed like the whole crowd was pressing in on the headmaster and the two dead students, almost claustrophobically, morbidly desperate to catch a sight of the grim corpses. Dumbledore pulled out his wand and cast an invisible barrier around him, charming it to keep out anyone he wouldn’t otherwise let through. Even so, he could feel the intense gaze of wide eyes on the back of his head; everyone was curious and confused, and something was clearly very wrong. It was in human nature to want to gawk and examine.

A scream rose from the crowd as Dumbledore picked up Harry’s cooling body and revealed what was underneath. Cedric’s Fanclub his ardent admirers were screaming, crying, both disgusted and heartbroken. Make no mistake about it, he was dead. Dumbledore knew Diggory looked like a corpse. It looked like he’d been tortured, tossed around, cut: spells like sectumsempra came into his mind, the skin cleanly cut away from his bones to reveal shredded muscle. The boy’s ruptured eyes stared emptily up at the night sky, and Dumbledore vaguely recognized the voice of Amos Diggory among the crowd. Harry was more important. As the headmaster, a man of status and experience, Dumbledore had made difficult, life-or-death decisions in the past. Even though this matter solely concerning death, there was a small chance the chosen one was still alive.

He felt Harry’s wrist. No pulse. He checked his eyes. They were glassy, still as green as Lily's, with the sheen of the recently dead. Dumbledore sighed. There was only one person who could have done this Voldemort. At the barrier, he sensed the presence of both Fudge and Amos Diggory. The Minister of Magic had to come first.

As soon as Fudge got through the barrier, he started speaking, his officious voice dominating the now-quiet crowd. People still whispered and muttered, but the loudest shouts had died down. Dumbledore considered that Ron and Hermione would want to be there and see the body. It wouldn’t help them. They needed to stay motivated; they would be the ones to carry on with the quest to defeat the dark lord. Seeing the brutal consequences of entangling with dark magic wouldn’t keep them in the game, and he needed their willingness to keep deploying people in the fight. “What’s going on - what’s happened?” Fudge continued to speak, now using Ministry jargon to describe the obvious security risk. “Headmaster, I am going to summon Aurors, and you need the medical wing, maybe more -”

His attempt at a commanding facade lasted until he saw the two bodies. All the blood left his face as he stared down, eyes fixed on Cedric’s broken arms, legs, and back with unconcealed horror. “Do what you want,” Dumbledore said quietly, closing Harry’s eyes. He felt defeated, and deep in his stomach, a sense of revolted anger. So the man really had come to this. That boy he had taught long ago, the one who went by the name of Tom Riddle, had become so twisted and corrupt that he would slaughter innocent teenagers.

“Let me in! Let me see my son!” Amos shouted through the barrier, and as Dumbledore dematerialized it to let the man, two other people broke through. Ron and Hermione, who had been at the front of the crowd since all the contestants had entered the maze, pushed Fudge aside. The pasty man stumbled, clutching at the lapels of his pinstriped suit, but made no attempt to get close to the grisly corpses again.

“He -” Cedric’s father crouched down on his haunches and reached out a hand to his son’s face. “...his eyes…”  
  
“It happens with some dark curses,” Dumbledore said, frowning, then reached out and patted the other man on the back. Tears ran down Amos’s pain-stricken face as he traced the empty holes where Cedric’s warm grey eyes had been. “Amos, I’m so sorry.”

The words seemed to electrify Amos, and a thunderous shadow flitted across his face. He jerked away from the headmaster’s attempt at reassurance and stood up, poker-straight. He started to speak to Dumbledore but was silenced with a single, piercing look.

“Not here, Amos,” the elderly man said, looking meaningfully at the crowd around them. “Let their memory be one of quiet dignity.” A vein pulsed in Amos’s forehead, and then all the fight seemed to leave him. He shoved Fudge out of the way and stumbled out of sight, disappearing off in the distance, obscured by the hedge of the maze. It was clear he couldn’t stand to be with the disfigured body; if Cedric looked like Harry, simply executed rather than tortured to death, perhaps his father would be happy to embrace him even in death.

Dumbledore now registered Ron and Hermione. Ron went to cover Hermione’s eyes, instinctively protective, but she slapped him away. “Stop!” she shouted, then stared accusingly at Dumbledore. “How could you let this happen?”  
  
“I didn’t know it would happen,” Dumbledore said heavily, standing up. “Minerva, can you remove them?” The woman nodded, emerging silently through the barrier and staring at the corpses with tight lips and hard eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” Hermione said, and for a moment Dumbledore thought she would slap him. She restrained herself, eyes filling with tears, and covered her face. Ron patted her on the back, face reddening either with anger or sadness. His eyes were narrowed as his free hand clenched into a fist.  
  
“Who did it,” he asked flatly. “Who killed him.”

Dumbledore looked down the bridge of his nose at him, hesitating. “There’s no way to tell, yet.”  
“I’m going to bloody - I’m -”

The barrier shivered beneath the weight of the people behind it. Everyone was scared, sensing the mood in the air; everyone wanted to get close. People who knew Harry and Cedric, like Malfoy, Dean Thomas, and Hannah Abbott, were leading the charge, furious at what looked like Ministry interference.

“Minerva, now,” Dumbledore said sternly. “It’ll be bad if the students see this.”  
  
Professor McGonagall nodded, face white, and pulled out her wand.

“Where are you putting them?” Fudge demanded, callous and yet still recovering from the shock of being face to face with death, something he’d never really had to personally witness from his comfortable position of denial. Dumbledore considered for a moment, then muttered something to Professor McGonagall. Ron and Hermione both watched intently, unsure whether to approach. Hermione exhaled shakily and looked meaningfully at Ron: surely Dumbledore would let them say goodbye later. For now, they had to act for the good and appearance of the school in front of both the government and foreign delegates.

The bodies disappeared. Pupils and ministry officials smashed through the magical barrier and crowded around, yelling questions, brandishing Ministry documentation. All avoided the patch of grass with the forlornly abandoned Triwizard cup, sticky with Cedric’s blood. 

Lucius crept through the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest. As soon as Harry had escaped with the Portkey, so had the Death Eater, determined to see the job done. The Dark Lord had not commanded him to make this journey, but he had done so out of his own volition to try and prove himself. Already, his loyalty was being called into question, and Lucius had witnessed the systemic execution of many a disloyal Death Eater before him. There was no question that the Dark Lord was merciless. If that brat had somehow survived, it would be on their heads as Death Eaters.

He had the wand of Cedric Diggory. Lucius had snuck around the edge of the tombstone, relying on the Dark Lord’s moment of triumph to pass undistracted, and apparated straight into the school grounds. The teachers and parents here were fools if they thought it was safe for their precious, mudblood children. Cedric’s wand felt light and useless in his pocket, rejecting his presence before he’d even tried to wield it. Well, no matter - Lucius knew how to bend a wand to his will. He had recognized the boy from the Ministry, from his father who would tote the teenager around the office like a handsome doll. Well, those days were long past. They would probably opt for a cremation, or a closed casket if the undertaker didn’t squirm at rearranging limbs back into a semblance of a human shape.

The woods started to thin out as he swept through the trees like a shadow drifting on the wind. Then he hesitated. The wards began here; he could sense their presence, the clear work of the headmaster, stupid old fool. Lucius considered trying to break through and then reconsidered. Time was of the essence. He could make enough of a spectacle from here. From here, through the trees, he could see the dense crowd of people, teeming like ants around the corner of the huge hedges of the maze. They looked disorientated, and the fact that they were seeping away from one particular spot made Lucius decide that the bodies had either been removed, or Dumbledore had told them to go. Either way, now was the time. There were ministry officials nearby, so it was Cedric’s wand. The reedy voice of Fudge wafted towards him on the wind and he screwed up his face, the pathetic tone of it irritating him.

He held up the springy ash wand towards the stars. “Morsmordre,” he spat, feeling the wand shake and protest in his hand at the evil spell. With a final wrench of effort from the Death Eater, the green light blossomed from the tip of Cedric’s wand and launched upwards into the sky. The ominous, venom-green skull suddenly materialized among the stars, stretching across the night.

It took seconds to be noticed. There was some small gratification in hearing the screams and general pandemonium; they must be scared, wondering if even more lives had been taken by the Dark Lord. If Potter was alive, there would be an instant, organized effort. This crowd was shocked and distressed… Potter wasn’t alive, then, and his gamble had paid off. Immediately, figures started to run towards him. They could run as fast as they wanted to, but their own wards deliciously banned them from apparating to apprehend him. Even magically-enhanced speed couldn’t catch up with instantaneous teleportation. As the first three Ministry officials crashed through the undergrowth, struggling towards the robed figure, Lucius broke Cedric’s wand beneath his boot and vanished.

Ron and Hermione had been the first to see the Dark Mark. Hermione had collapsed to her knees, staring wretchedly up at the sky, while Ron had held her hand and similarly gazed upwards; anything to give her a small piece of comfort and companionship. However, there was no reassurance to be found in the stars. Both were too young to fully remember the days of terror, the time when the Dark Mark was a relatively common sight after the Death Eaters had been through with a local dissident family. The smoky green was unmistakable. In sync, just like their mourning, their hearts had stopped and then started again as if electrified.

“There’s a Death Eater, somewhere in the woods!” Ron shouted. He pulled Hermione upright and sprinted towards the woods, dragging her behind him. Eventually, she found her feet and soon matched his pace, anger driving her onwards. They’d arrived breathless at the edge of the forest, outpaced only by some of the Aurors...and there was no one. “Go deeper in,” Ron commanded. The Ministry men, far higher ranked than this teenager, obeyed his command. Although they disappeared among the trees, all returned empty-handed, and they stood together in stunned silence.

“The Ministry failed,” Hermione said tightly, pointedly. Their chance at a semblance of swift revenge had disappeared into the night. “There was a killer, right here…”

Fudge stared into the woods, red in the face, fiddling uselessly with his label. Kingsley Shacklebolt took over. “Send for a specialist removal team,” he barked at the men around him.

“But we can’t apparate on the grounds-”  
“Then how did a Death Eater get out of these woods? The whole forest is part of the grounds?”  
“Sir, maybe the wards have been weakened,” another Ministry official suggested.

Shacklebolt frowned. “There’s obviously been tampering here. Go back into the woods,” he said to the men who’d already attempted a search for Malfoy, “apparate as soon as you can. Get the team. Don’t splint.”

Stunningly, within a minute there was a team of four or five grim-faced Aurors, all wearing dark, specialist robes made of a conspicuously tougher material. These were the guys reserved for difficult operations, and yet here they were to remove a mere sigil from the sky. Except it was more than just a skull, it was a sign the Dark Lord had returned...that the Chosen One had been murdered…and even Dumbledore was weakened against him.

Dumbledore hadn’t run towards the woods. The protection spell around the castle allowed him, and only him, to apparate. He had gone, checked it was under control, and then reluctantly returned to the main body of students. He had to fulfill his role as Headmaster, as much as he wanted to fight the enemy. As he commanded various groups to return to the castle, he felt a piercing gaze on his back. He turned, half paying attention.

“Moody?” he muttered. “You suspect foul play, too?”  
  
“Someone clearly messed with that trophy, make no mistake,” the man grunted, stumping forwards on his peg leg and looking off into the distance ominously. “But the perpetrator is long gone now; we didn’t catch the bastard in the woods. No hope now.”

Dumbledore shook his head, silent. “I won’t rest until this fight is over, and there’s justice.”

“Fighting words,” Moody said, then nodded and stumped past, leg clicking with each movement. When his face was turned away from the headmaster, it split into a wicked smile. The old man was still unaware of Barty Crouch Jr’s brilliant genius; more pity for him, because it would be all of their downfalls. His excellence at playing the double agent - his brilliant plans, excellent spellwork - all would bring down Dumbledore and leave the world wide open for his Dark Lord.


	2. Chapter 33 (AU)

Before the joint funeral, there was a feast for the students. Normally, it would be the end of term feast, marking the beginning of holidays, and the atmosphere would be celebratory. People loved going to school at Hogwarts, but particularly in the upper years, when exams threatened to call, it was wearing. Most enjoyed the prospect of heading home to their families, with whom they’d had little contact with through the year. Harry wouldn’t have done he would have stayed at school most likely, or Ron would have invited him to stay. Unfortunately, he’d never get that chance. It seemed inconceivable to the Weasleys that they’d never be able to invite Harry back to the busy, tumbledown burrow.  
  
Ron knew it was a good thing his parents hadn’t been at the front of the crowd. It was a relief. He knew that if his mother had seen Harry’s body, she would never forget it. She loved the Boy Who Lived like a second son; except now he wasn’t "the Boy Who Lived, but the Boy Who Died". That was what the Slytherins were saying, anyway, and even though they were meant to be eating...the same people had other things they wanted to do. Clear attempts to disturb the weary, gloomy silence came from the Slytherin table and its small handful of future Death Eaters. These were the same kids, every time, the ones whose mothers and fathers had probably been in whatever place Harry and Cedric had been unfortunate enough to stumble into before they died.  
  
Dumbledore searched the bodies for clues; he told no one what he found, even the other staff, but felt obliged to report it to Ron and Hermione. There had been grave dirt under Harry’s fingernails, he’d told them, and he’d cast a spell on the small scrapings of grey soil to try and discern the history of the place. Little Hangleton graveyard. The name meant nothing to Hermione, absolutely nothing other than where her best friend and classmate had died. Ron, however, was raised in the wizarding world; he knew all the mythology and tales circulating among the families.  
  
Who had lived near Little Hangleton graveyard? Who had been the most prominent Muggle family in Little Hangleton, before their untimely deaths? There was only one Ron could think of: the Riddles. And in their second year, when Ginny had that cursed black book titled Tom Marvolo Riddle's Diary, the same name had come up over and over again. Half Blood Tom Riddle, the boy who had become Lord Voldemort. There was no doubt who had orchestrated the murders of Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter. All signs suggested that the greatest, most powerful dark wizard of all time was back, resurrecting his own past and strength while murdering the present; and on Lord Voldemort return, he’d killed the only one prophesied to be able to stand against him.  
  
So, Ron was scared. Everyone was scared, even teachers, even those who usually appeared formidable and implacable like Professor McGonagall. Lord Voldemort was meant to be scared of Dumbledore, wasn’t he? Yet the murders had essentially taken place on school grounds. The Triwizard Tournament had been under the Headmaster’s supervision, as the host school, and UK Ministry had deemed the lush grounds of Hogwarts safe for the matter. Somehow, they had all made a crucial oversight; somehow, a tiny gap in security, a spy, a failed ward, had let this awful abduction take place. Ron noticed Dumbledore hadn’t admitted any wrongdoing, himself.  
  
Perhaps he could understand why Harry had often been angry with the Headmaster. As Ron’s brothers had all gone through the school, generally worshipping the old man, and his own parents were very close to him, Ron’s faith in Dumbledore’s strength had never wavered. Until now. Now, sitting in the Great Hall, the ceiling respectfully darkened in memoriam of the two Murdered students, Ron realized he didn’t feel safe at all.  
  
He didn’t have to say it to Hermione. He knew what she was thinking. It had only been two days, and yet neither of them could go back to their dormitories. Instead, they’d stayed in the Gryffindor common room, staring blankly at the crackling fire. The third armchair was painfully empty. Every time either of them glanced at it, they’d remember Harry was dead. They’d spent more time with the bodies than almost anyone else, and consequently, traumatically, the memory was even more visceral than the other students’ was.  
  
Hermione didn’t like to sleep alone. She didn’t like the way the other girls pitied her, especially those like Lavender Brown. The brunette would try and be reassuring, but would end up in floods of tears herself: Hermione was exhausted by the attempts of Cedric’s Fanclub to try and comfort her. Cedric was a loss, to be sure; Harry was quite another. So instead, they slept in the armchairs, when they slept. When they didn’t see either Cedric’s raw red skin or Harry’s blank, pebble-like eyes. Before she saw the body, Hermione didn’t know that such a brilliant green could fade into obscurity so quickly in death.  
  
She stared at her untouched plate. A few students had tried to pick up their cutlery, but by and by the majority left their plates as full as they had appeared. The food was the usual, which somehow seemed frivolous and inappropriate. Only a few people ate, and Hermione made a mental note of each one. The Slytherins, at least the troublemakers among them, were eating loudly and quickly.  
  
“Think the food’s better after deaths, Crabbe?” Malfoy’s voice drifted over. “I reckon the old man will have told those pitiful house elves to put in a bit more effort, considering the slop they usually cook.”  
“Don’t know why they’re making the effort,” Pansy Parkison said, as usual. She liked to back Malfoy up on all counts. Hermione cynically wondered what role in the Death Eaters they’d like to fill later. Maybe the pug faced girl had aspirations to become an uglier Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione tried to ignore their voices, and considered picking up the goblet, just for something to do. The thought of sweet pumpkin juice turned her stomach. She could leave; cause a scene. Hardly any of the teachers were eating either. Only Mad-Eye Moody, oblivious to all, it seemed, grizzled and hardened and used to gore, was stuffing a meat pie into his face. Crabbe and Goyle, too, were eating decadently, enjoying the specially made food. Malfoy caught her eye and sneered. For the first time, he too picked up his fork and made a show of biting into a tart, chewing with his mouth open as if daring her to retaliate.  
  
“Who would have thought they’d use poor table manners against us,” Hermione said flatly.  
  
“It’s ok,” Ron said, looking up at the head of the table. “Dumbledore’s about to make a speech. They’ll have to be quiet then, or they’ll get in trouble.”

“get in trouble?” she scoffed, then tried to wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her worn cardigan. She’d taken to wearing it over her school shirt as if wearing something other than her outfit upon finding the bodies would make it all less real. As if the soft fabric could protect her from the clear signs of returning evil. There were open Death Eaters supporters in the school anyone could tell, glancing at the Slytherins and their joyous, obnoxious expressions and someone with her heritage as Muggle wasn’t safe. “Oh, imagine getting in trouble.”  
  
The implication was clear. They might get in trouble, but their parents, who’d had a hand in torturing Cedric and killing Harry, wouldn’t. Either way, the punishment was nothing compared to the certainty of death. Now that the Tournament had ended, the UK Ministry demanding it be cut short, the other participating schools had gone home. Fled might be more accurate. The Beauxbatons had made their polite excuses, apologized, offered condolences, and returned home. The Durmstrangs had gone in the middle of the first night without a word. Not even Krum had reached out. Suspicious, but in the end, it was all meaningless.  
  
Dumbledore cleared his throat. Usually, he would tap a glass, but the effort was too jolly now.  
  
“Good evening, students of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I understand that this is a traumatic evening for all of you. For three days, we have been mourning the loss of two of our best students: Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter. I will save my speech for the most appropriate time, and I hope you all understand that. We will honor their memory fully in the funeral ceremony.”

“Firstly, I would like to offer an explanation to you, the students. It is understandable to be both shocked and scared. You may have heard the rumors about what happened at the scene of the tragedy. Some words of reassurance: wherever it was, and whatever fate befell them both, it was not on Hogwarts grounds. Therefore, you, as students of this school, are safe. The staff will protect you.” He extended a handout, suddenly looking old and tired. A few of the professors nodded, others stared out into the hall or at their plates.  
  
Only two moved. Snape readjusted himself on his seat and looked as if he was checking something in his robe pocket. Mad Eye Moody tore a strip off a chicken leg with his teeth, and then glanced upwards in the subsequent silence. With a cough, he put the chicken down and stared at the students, blue eye whizzing in all directions. It fell beadily on Ron for a second, and then Moody looked away, breaking the eye contact between the two.  
  
The crime scene. Ron wanted to shout at Dumbledore. They should explain exactly what it was. But when he tried to speak, he realized that the staff had already taken precautions. The Slytherin behavior hadn't gone unnoticed, but it almost made him see red anyway. Why weren't they being confronted? There was a muffling charm cast over the hall, and all the students were near silent. Blaise Zabini was flicking pieces of bread over to the Hufflepuff table. Just being quiet did nothing to disguise their contempt for the entire ceremony. There was no point in them condemning what they saw as a victory for their side, however gory it might have been. Hannah Abbott turned, teary eyed, and tried to shout at the Slytherins. The spell worked both ways. Her response was muffled, and all this took place at the back of the hall, out of sight even of Dumbledore.  
  
By now, the situation had escalated. Almost all of the gangs were throwing bits of food at the Hufflepuffs as if attacking them for mourning so openly and being pathetic. Neither Ron nor Hermione could focus on the rest of the speech. Instead, on autopilot, they stood up and went outside for the actual funeral ceremony.  
  
Obviously, the real things would be family affairs. Perhaps then, they could give a eulogy each, the best substitute for a proper farewell either could muster. Hermione already had a short speech in mind, forming at the back of her mind, while Ron never had her talent with words. He could still mourn the loss of his funny, brilliant friend. But for the time being, they presented still and quietly upset faces to the school.  
  
The students all filed out onto the school grounds. It seemed impossible to believe that a few days ago, these same rain-soaked fields had been the site of something with as much pomp and circumstance as the Triwizard Tournament. The great maze had gone now, the towering, thick hedges magically removed with much haste.  
  
Although the other schools had left with a hurried goodbye, they at least helped to clear up the mess they had contributed to. The wider world believed a tragic accident had taken place. Ron and Hermione believed some sort of trap had been laid, with Harry as the target and the Little Hangleton graveyard as the place of execution. There was no one to tell their suspicions to. With the current behavior of the Slytherins, it didn't seem a stretch to suppose they could be spies too. Dumbledore was busy with endless visitors from the Ministry, as everyone had the same question: what had happened? Why had they let it happen? Could it really be? The savior of the UK Wizarding World, dead? Once the newspapers heard, which they hadn't quite yet by order of the Ministry, Fudge being a vocal advocate for keeping the whole thing quiet until they found a plausible explanation for a freak series of events, the devastation of the UK Wizarding World would be on a scale never before seen.  
  
Ron found it hard to care what others would think. He was worried about his own family and Hermione. No one else had been at the front of the crowd; no one else had seen the bodies up close, and no one else knew about the Little Hangleton graveyard.  
  
There was one exception, a man stooped and grizzled, with a mad-looking bright blue eye. His features were still and sedate. The real Mad-eye Moody would have probably grumbled at the formality, made a comment about how real funerals should be conducted. The real man would have sensed the darker artifices at play here and would have noticed the Triwizard Cup was a Portkey. However, there was a fundamental contradiction. If Mad-eye Moody was the man he claimed to be, none of it would have happened in the first place. After all, Alastor Moody wasn't a dark wizard. Barty Crouch Junior, on the other hand, certainly was. In fact, he delighted in his alliance with Voldemort, finding no greater sustenance than the rare praises of his master. It was the ultimate act of rebellion against his boring, Minister father, and the talented young wizard found it delicious how easily he could put others under his thrall. He glanced around covertly, enjoying the extra insights his stolen eye gave him.  
  
None of them suspected anything; could he add them to the list of stupid victims of his own? And they all surely would be, especially the Potter boy's two remaining friends. As the Dark Lord had predicted, the others wouldn't stand by him now that he was dead. Their figurehead was gone, so one of these two would eventually step up, either by their own choice or under the edict of the Headmaster. Not that it mattered what the foolish Dumbledore decided to do. At this rate, he'd be outsmarted with little effort from young Crouch. Then he would deliver the woeful pair to the Dark Lord, who would make short and personal work of the two of them. It would be much better than that Diggory boy. Barty Crouch Jr was sure the Dark Lord would come up with a more elegant solution than flaying; maybe something that exploited the dynamics between the two, maybe making the boy kill the mudblood… He thought of all these possibilities standing in between Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick. His disguise was so perfect even these highly trained witches knew nothing of it.  
  
Professor Dumbledore stood. Instead of his usual, strikingly colorful robes, he had donned a black one out of respect. He walked up onto a small, raised platform made of out wood. On either side of him were floating candles, similar to those in the Great Hall, and even though it was raining their small wicks burnt on. It should have added a hushed, almost peaceful atmosphere to the school ceremony. Instead, Hermione thought the flames were so small they might as well be futile.  
  
Most of the students stood respectfully in the lines they'd be ushered into, ordered by year. The sixth years stood at the very front, given priority, because after all, they were the closest to the dead boys. All the sixth years held themselves with quiet dignity, even those Hermione had expected to break down and cause a scene. She wanted to cry herself but was strong enough to resist the animalistic urge in order to keep the ceremony in the pure dedication of the two, with no living distraction.  
  
There were notable exceptions. The Slytherins had eschewed the entire line system, so out of order, Hermione wondered why they weren't being removed from the ceremony altogether. She suspected they had made some excuse about it just being their way of expressing grief; claiming they coped through humor. Darker than that, though, was the realization even little arrogant weasels like Draco Malfoy were slowly becoming more powerful than the teachers. Everyone knew his parents were Death Eaters. No-one had explicitly said it was Voldemort that did it, but everyone knew all the same. The power balance had shifted. She kept staring rigidly ahead, past Dumbledore and towards the gloomy, muted horizon with its forbidding trees. The rain made everything grey and somber. She just wanted it to be over. Hermione could tell Ron felt the same. In front of the school, such a memorial felt like a show, complete with hecklers.  
  
Dumbledore began his speech with little preamble.  
  
"We are gathered here today in an act of mourning. As a school, as students of Hogwarts, we are a magical family. Each of you who crosses the Great Lake in your first year becomes a Hogwarts student for life. Regretfully, we have suffered two tragic, devastating losses in our community. Although nothing we can do can bring either of these boys back, it is only fair and right to mourn as we would usually. It is crucial to forget the circumstances of their deaths. By acknowledging it, and growing fearful, we are lending power to the dark forces at play in our world."  
  
Dumbledore began to talk further. He would talk about Cedric first, both Hermione and Ron knew. Cedric's death was a tragic blow to the school itself, as he was so popular. Harry wasn't a popular heartthrob, but his death meant something different. It was a fracturing of the certainty the Wizarding world had since he survived the fateful night both his parents were killed. It meant that the prophecy was false, that they had no savior. Hermione vowed not to listen to the speech. It would be too painful to hear the words from someone who knew Harry as a student, not as a friend, interspersed with the jeers of the huddle of Slytherins.  
  
Dumbledore cleared his throat. He needed no paper, unphased by the soft drizzle of rain from the dark sky.  
  
"Cedric was a person who exemplified many of the qualities which distinguish Hufflepuff house, he was a good and loyal friend, a hard worker, he valued fair play." He paused, casting his piercing eyes around the crowd. "His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about. Cedric Diggory was murdered by Lord Voldemort."  
  
Ron and Hermione didn't know what they expected, but it certainly wasn't the muffled cheer from the Slytherins. At the sound, the staff immediately cast a silencing charm on them, but too late. Mad-eye Moody smiled. The ceremony went on, but they could no longer mourn. There was only fear; the certain knowledge that soon, the dark days would return, and there would be more blood and slaughter than ever before.


End file.
